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A veritable chorus line of Robs — union actors, semi-pros, raw rookies — some of whom came from as far away as Ottawa and Vancouver, solely for the opportunity of auditioning for Rob Ford The Musical: Birth of a Ford Nation.

Oh, not the real thing of course, of which there is only one, The Original. And that guy is still MIA, AWOL, BYOB, DIY...

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Ensconced in cottage-country rehab — except for those townie jaunts; most cockamamie dry-out facility I’ve ever heard of — whence he dispatches occasional “all-fine” bulletins to acolytes and constituents. Nice to know Robbie’s made at least one car keys-sharing pal and that, while Ford may be up on the blocks, at least his Escalade, the Rob-mobile, was out having a grand old time last month and clocked on an alleged DUI.

Actors wait for an open audition for 'Rob Ford the Musical' in Toronto on Monday. (Chris Young / THE CANADIAN PRESS)

In the continuing absence of Rob Classic, a steady stream of pseudo-Robs and look-alike Robs and look-nothing-like (black, female) Robs showed up Monday for the pending musical’s casting call at a Peter St. establishment where old Second City posters line the basement walls — and oh, to have dear John Candy back, just imagine his send-up of Toronto’s coke-smoking, arse-grabbing, tirade-ranting, fall-down-boozing, criminal-consorting, obscenity-spewing chief magistrate.

Co-writer Brett McCaig (book and lyrics) explains that the musical was auditioning for three primary roles: Rob, brother Doug Ford, and Margaret Atwood, whose character (called “Tranny” in the show” will act as a kind of narrator for the show or the ghost of scandals-past or something like that. (Recall, during the library funding wars, that DoFo boasted he wouldn’t recognize the world-famous Canadian author if she walked in front of him.)

Actually, since DoFo has been channeling his little bro’ lo these past five-plus weeks, acting like a de facto mayor while doubtless understudying the job, he would make a fine stage version of the mayor, too. Sadly, none of the wacky Ford sibs seem to have any interest in the production. At the very least, McCaig has put out a standing invitation to attend the show, which will run for two weeks in September at the Factory Theatre.

This isn’t the first time the exploits of Rob Ford have been transformed into entertainment popcorn. The problem, of course, is that Our Ford Follies is pre-existing theatre of the absurd, a Grand Guignol of infamous and grotesque compulsion. How can anybody possibly satirize the existentially farcical?

“It is so absurdist,” McCaig agrees. “That’s why we went there. Musical theatre is the only next step. It’s Shakespearian! It’s operatic!

“Remember that media scrum where Ford walked into a camera? In the musical, he gets knocked out and that’s when he meets Tranny. It’s very Dickensian.”

So, Dickensian and Shakespearian and operatic. We’d throw in Swiftian.

But one song — music by Anthony Bastianon — does borrow hook-line-and-sphincter from Ford’s drunken-stupor speech. You just can’t improve on the source material.

At the head of the try-out line yesterday was — wait for it — David Miller (not that one), a 30-year-old professional actor and survivalist bartender who approached the audition as a serious gig. “It’s a chance to be a part of some fairly important history,” he noted. Neither here nor there about Ford, personally. “But since he’s been on this rehab stint, Jimmy Kimmel and Conan O’Brien have been missing him. For everybody else it’s been kind of a breather.”

Miller’s rather impressive audition ranged from opera to The Barenaked Ladies (once barred from performing at Nathan Phillips Square by a Ford predecessor, Mayor June Rowlands, on account of their mischievous name. Were we really ever that innocent?)

Travis Hay, an intern with KISS 92.5 — Sassy Travis, he calls himself — had the advantage of “an uncanny resemblance” to the mayor “that I’m not proud of.” While we are not personally familiar with Sassy Travis’ radio persona, he professes to be a funny guy, though his audition — a squeaky rendition of the late Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” — was awful.

His more sober assessment of Ford: “I feel he’s got a lot of issues he hasn’t dealt with yet. I really hope this (rehab) is not a Lindsay Lohan story. On the other hand, he’s made his own bed. Time to take a nap.”

There was also Geoff Stone, a music producer from Ottawa who offered his own self-penned song, “Drunken Stupor,” and came closest to looking the part. Lyrics: “I’m probably in a drunken stupor, whoops I made a blooper...”

Sigh.

Truthy time: I miss Rob Ford.

Or maybe I just miss my Rob Ford fix.

He’s a drug, an opiate, a mainlining high with a bicep-squeezing, vein-popping rubber tie-off, a smack-daddy.

Admittedly, my RoFo receptors are shot after more than a year of building up tolerance to the big lug. The progressively decreasing responsiveness now requires larger doses to achieve the same stupefying effects enjoyed earlier. And, like the rest of the city, like the whole gosh-darn world, I’ve been forced to go cold-turkey, but for the surfacing of a selfie here, a Joe Warmington dial-up there, a mysterious blonde rehab co-hab over there yonder.

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